Sarah Frances Moran

La Comadreja

After the discardmentin the past,allowing a woman to infest meset off blazing lightwarning signsneon brightand squealing.

There’s beautyin the abilityto skirt walls.to avoid the spotlight.to dance around the shadowsof the searchlights.

Even on high alert,she eludes me.

She weasels her way into the poemsthat aren’t even about her.

Setting up residencein the pit of me.

Turning my soulintohome.​

Poets Are Never Lost

Not to life or the splintering thereafter.They rest between the syllables of words.Inside the neatly tucked crevices of all the thingswe wished we said and the things we wish we didn’t.They live on in the rhyme and in the rhythmof the way that words fall from our lips even when they quiver.Every sunriseEvery sunsetEvery beautiful extravaganza of life that everyperson witnesses and gives voice to holds inside itthe voice and essence of every poet – across every lifetime.They are never lost.They may wander and they may wonder where to.But the where to is an infinite.

You can find them in the trails of words they leave behindand in the way those words settle and nest, inside your heart.​​

Pixie

The connection between my lover and mebegan in the trails that run along the outeredges of my brain. Where a Pixie was bornand elf ears mattered.That evolution started in my teens. Sparked in the way my hair was so heavy and held downall the ways I felt I was becoming.As it morphed from locks to fades I shed everythingI was hiding in my hair. My sexuality, my doubt,my fear and the ways in which I felt I was inappropriatelydesired.Now, it’s a toss-up. It’s a funny look in the women’s bathroombut it’s also ecstasy when she runs her hands againstthe smoothness of my neckline.My hair reflects the revolutions of my life. How I knowI’m larger than societal preconceptions but alsohow I’m under that thumb. How I’m stronger in this self,sexier in this self but also sometimes afraid of this self.Those trails she runs I know are paths she desires.I keep them clean cut so she can always find me.​​

Your Shining Autumn, Ocean Crashing

The way the waves invaded the shoreI thought of his handsand then of yours, soft like cotton candy on my tongue.Made a choice on where to focus.You sang me to sleep that nightand I asked myselfhad anyone ever written anything for me?and decided it didn’t matterFell asleep on that stiff like whiskey bedFeeling the rumble of currents inside my gutResolving to be bigger, mightier andworthy of your storms.​

If I were Jane Gallagher

The answer would be yes.I still keep all of my kingson the back roweven though I’ve spent decadesdetermining where to move them.Thank you for asking about me butStepdads are Stepdads.Phonies are phonies.Morons are moronsand my kings, remain safe.In my fantasyI go back to that time whencheckers strategy was the looming decision,not whether the way you’re going to touch me might set off a series of​ dominoesand consequences that never end.But Holden, you can move your kings.Just pick up the phoneand call me.

Making Love To The Sea

You walk with feet against hot sand that cannot be kept from enteringthe cool water.

With the way the mist of the waves becomes a whisper,like a lover’s lips close to your ears drawing you in.

You disregard your lack of gill.Forget the way the anatomy tells you, you have to be.Take the plunge into the unfamiliarand make it mold to your skin.

No one ever realizes how hard that swim is.How it never occurred to you that you couldn’t enter those waters,until you heard all the screaming from the shore.How it didn’t matter and how those screams could never be loud enoughto make you exit,because you were made this way,whether it was normal or not.

No one ever realizes how beautiful and brave it isthat even though you’ve been told your whole life you’re meant for the shore

you chose to make love to the sea.​​

Get Off Your Knees Boy

all the scrapesand all the scarsthat span the years of kneeling and wishing

can’t give you the skyif when you’re standingtall and proudthe kindest hand you offer

is always an afterthought

the sky will always turn its headjuking your kissto find the honest mouthwith the courageous tongue

the onethat will spark the stars to shootand make the moon shine bright

the lips that bring a sizzle to the sunthat goosebumps the landscape

those will always win out over the hypocrisy of some kneelingthe sky falls in love with your kindness…and its kiss craves the bravery that pours off your lipsso get up or on your knees boy,it doesn’t matter